


Who am I, if not my mistakes?

by oathkeptroxas



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics), Green Arrow (Comics), Green Arrow - All Media Types, Teen Titans (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Child Abandonment, Child Abuse, Underage Drinking, Underage Drug Use, Underage Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 21:32:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9347159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oathkeptroxas/pseuds/oathkeptroxas
Summary: I wrote this on my original Roy roleplay blog back in 2014. I dug it out and tweaked it a little because I remembered it this morning and wrote it long before I had an account here.It was part of a competition called Event: Memoria. The instructions were "write a pivotal, defining moment in your characters canon". I didn't make top 3, but this was the first time I tackled this part of Roy's history and I'm so proud of it and how far I've come since.





	

It wasn’t a big deal. It was a healthy dose of teenage rebellion. At most it would become an exercise in character building. At least it was a rush. He was placated with the knowledge that he was far from alone in this. It was normal for people his age to act out, pushed on by impulse and a quenchless urge to test their limits. He’d convinced himself that there would be no repercussions.

He’d been so devastatingly wrong. The rain fell down, sheeting and relentless, as he sat on the curb with his head hanging heavy in his shaking hands. His split lip throbbed with its own beat and the dried blood upon his flesh began to itch. Looking back now, he should’ve seen it coming…

It had started small. It began with the weight of his drumsticks in his hands, his head tilted back, his neck sweat-glistening and stretched bare. With his eyes squeezed shut and the music drowning out the distant noise of traffic, he was transported away from the drab garage, set aside from his classmate’s house. He imagined the roar of a crowd, the thunder of applause. For the first time he allowed himself to dream of star-studded career that he’d never have, even if he wasn’t the resident sidekick.

It started that way; he lost himself in the music so much so that he didn’t even notice he’d played his drums until his fingers were numb, cramped from their tight hold. But soon enough, even that didn’t satisfy his yearning for something more. As many teens come to realise, they exist in a limbo period between children who don’t know any better and adulthood, in which you must take measured steps weighed down by responsibility. It’s within these few short years that mistakes are accepted and moved passed, sometimes even encouraged.

Their first open-mic night came quickly and with a heady rush. His heart pounded in tandem with the vibration of the music through the floorboards. With cigarette smoke to calm his nerves and alcohol buzzing in his mind just enough to allow breezy nonchalance, they took to the stage. He got his crowd. He felt the rush of moving a room of bodies, like a puppeteer pulling strings. The floor was as sticky as his brow and it was a heady feeling. He’d reached this new height, and Roy was reckless and arrogant and he wanted to take this higher. And in no time at all cigarettes and alcohol were traded out for something stronger.

The rain continued, plastering his clothes thick to his skin. He’d become ghostly pale in the cold, and the marks that littered his quivering arms stood out in stark contrast to the drained colour of his flesh. The track lines collided and overlapped in his vision as his eyes burned with tears. This wasn’t a big deal. He’d only done this to himself.

Speedy dealt with lowlifes every day. He saw the darkest corners of the city; he’d seen people pushed to their limits. He’d lost count of the junkies he’d dealt with that would risk and sacrifice anything for their next fix. He wouldn’t ever be one of them. A perk to having a billionaire for a guardian was that he was never strapped for cash. He bought his rocks and he shot up, he didn’t owe anybody anything and his choices were his alone. Nobody else was affected by his transgression. It wasn’t a big deal.

He remembered how the addiction had set in, shifting his priorities ever so slightly from the task at hand. He recalled the first time he’d missed his mark – a vital mission with the Titans that had ended in his shaking hands becoming unable to keep his arrow straight, the projectile hit wide of its target. Desolation set in. His mind was too preoccupied with the realisation that maybe this was a big deal after all. He could no longer do what he was best at. He was now endangering the lives of others. That was the first time his team mates had been left to pick up the pieces. They gazed upon him with careful concern, and that was also the first time he’d lied to them.

The hot of his tears burned his skin in contrast to the rain that fell without mercy. He was out there alone. And his mind kept spewing such venomous thoughts. He’d deserved everything he got. He’d done this to himself. But, honestly, he’d never really expected to be left this way. He’d never imagined that those closest to him would simply give up.

Still, he couldn’t shake this awful habit. And he was forced to lie in the bed he’d made, buried deep in the husk of himself. He’d tried. God, had he tried. But it was just so easy to fall back on. He had money to waste and stress to relieve, and he craved the make-believe version of himself he’d somehow conjured.

So, it was no surprise that Oliver eventually found him, his mind buzzing and reeling and the used needle haphazardly left upon the counter-top. He’d heard the sickeningly smack more than he’d felt it. But even in his intoxicated mind he knew he’d been struck. And one punch led to two and he could feel the warm ooze of blood trailing down from his swollen lip. With wide eyes that didn’t truly comprehend what was happening he stared up at his mentor. The older man was shouting, his face red and murderous, his clenched fist held up the syringe and shook with the intensity of his feeling. But, Roy couldn’t hear what he was saying, not really – he was lost on that fact that his guardian, his father had just struck him. It was like a fever dream. The yelling was garbled like he was listening from underwater. Oliver took a step forward and Roy stumbled back under his own accord. He started screaming too, words that he’d grow to regret, words that escalated the whole situation further. Fuck it. He’d lost so much already. This wasn’t a big deal.

And so, there he was, on the streets and alone. Soaked through to the bone and quivering from more than the cold as he came crashing down. Reality set in. This was all he had. He’d done this to himself.


End file.
